I carry a few different business cards in my purse. Because I never know what conversation I will have with a stranger at any given time.
A month ago I fetched cream for my coffee at a café in South Bend, Indiana. Naturally my family didn’t know a soul in the joint. However, by the time I returned to my table, I knew some incredibly intimate (not to mention interesting) details about the daughter of the man next to me who was reaching for a napkin: his daughter is bipolar; she was anorexic as a teenage ballerina; and she’s on some of the same meds as I am.
I ended up giving him a business card with everything but my email scratched out.
I didn’t want to have the conversation of what I do for living.
It doesn’t have anything to do with who I am.
And that’s why I get so annoyed that we have to start all of our conversations with that question.
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